Home
by civillove
Summary: He doesn't even know why he's here. He hasn't been back since he thought about transferring; he can still feel the weight of the fabric on his shoulders, the red piping and the navy material, soaking into the pores of his skin like it's a part of him. Because it is a part of him, no matter how much he likes to pretend it's not.


I don't know what this is, right after 4x04 the break up and 4x07 dynamic duets and its all blended together into one and it's Blaine, angst, and Sebastian. Seblaine because what else do I do with my life (spoiler nothing). Dalton AU you could say.

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He doesn't even know why he's here.

He hasn't been back since he thought about transferring; he can still feel the weight of the fabric on his shoulders, the red piping and the navy material, soaking into the pores of his skin like it's a part of him. Because it is a part of him, no matter how much he likes to pretend it's not. How he likes to pretend that going back there doesn't mean much to him—that it's just a series of brick buildings, winding staircases and off-white walls, checkered floors, sets of lockers, leather couches and musical notes bouncing off the tables, chairs and reverberating through his body.

It really doesn't mean anything.

Honestly.

It doesn't strike something deep inside him, that awful sense of belonging that shakes him to his core, fills up invisible holes in his body that he feels like he's had for quite some time, that feeling of his stomach bottoming out, weakness in his knees, in-between the bone and muscle, cartilage filled with butterflies, that paralyzing, overwhelming sensation of _home_.

It doesn't.

He has a different home now, doesn't he?

Except he doesn't. It's all been stripped away, trashed and ruined. Taking pieces of him, things he didn't realize were missing until it was too late, until he realized he couldn't just plug the holes with anything superficial. The loneliness crawling up from under his spine, digging into his skin, a long awaited buried emotion that he thought he'd never have to feel again—until it was staring him in the face, something he couldn't honestly believe he could escape. Except he thinks he had, for a little while at least—until that too was swept away and shipped to New York, the pull of bright lights and endless sound removing what had kept away that utter sense of being _alone_.

So that feeling comes back and it's devastating.

It's crippling.

And it consumes him.

And he spirals. He makes a mistake. One simple mistake to fill that crushing numbness that makes him feel like someone is reaching inside of him and scraping a piece of him out of his body. A part that makes him who he is.

And that had worked. For a little while. That sensation of nothingness had been filled, satisfied. Until he had realized what he had done.

_Cheated_. The word still sounds dirty to him. Well, it sounds dirty because it is and that's what he feels. Utterly filthy; the kind of grime that builds up after a long while, the kind of self-loathing that remains after many tries at removing it. He's tried countless times to cleanse that part of him that makes him want to forget it ever happened.

Even though he knows he can't do that. He has to remember the mistake he made to actually get past it.

So he tries to own up to it—travels all the way to New York and submerges himself in the life and sound and electricity of a city that moves too fast for him to keep up with it. He wants to be accepted for trying, for trying to fix something he's shattered.

He's tried so many times to be great at everything, to be accepted by everyone, to smile and be anything anyone needs but somewhere along the way he's broken himself in the process, lost himself.

He doesn't know when or how it happened. But he has a feeling it has something to do with leaving those brick buildings behind, the leather couches and the red and blue fabric laced piping. The moment that jacket slid off his shoulders and he traded solos for hairgel and bowties.

He thinks coming back here would feel like coming home, he waits for that feeling to fill him up inside, to warm him to the point where it doesn't matter that he's forgotten his coat in his car and the wind of winter is nipping at his ears and nose. He waits and waits.

But it doesn't come.

It doesn't feel like coming home—if anything it makes him feel sick inside, his stomach jerking in his midsection. He doesn't _belong_ here anymore.

He doesn't belong anywhere.

He has to stop placing his home in people because people go away, they disappear, they break promises, they leave and don't come back.

Blaine doesn't know why he's here.

But he guesses it has something to do with going back to the last place where he's felt complete, whole, like that self-hatred inside him isn't trying to eat him from the inside out.

His knuckles are bruised from boxing without tape; they knock off the wooden door in front of him with a resounding echo that seems far too loud for the middle of the night. Sometimes he thinks he'll be alright—Sam has told him countless times that he's not a bad person and half the time he believes him. But other times, times like this, times where Kurt won't answer his phone calls, times where he has to watch his Facebook feed fill up with interactions and likes and pictures of him and some other guy—

A guy that's not Blaine.

Who's not a cheater.

That's when he feels like something is going to buckle inside of his chest and squeeze his ribcage together, crack his bones, shards emptying into his veins.

The road to here seems shorter and shorter each time he drives it.

He waits. Wonders if he has the wrong dorm. Until he hears something stir behind the wood, something shuddering into place, the doorknob turning and cracking open in the slightest.

The light from the hallway makes the taller squint, wonder if he's stuck between a reality and something else; something not quite real but not quite dream worthy either. Can see the hope swirling in those green eyes, it's too dark to see the color even with the help of the hallway light.

But Blaine doesn't need help remembering, he knows the color, has them burned into his memory.

He's gorgeous like he expects, takes the air right out of his lungs. Makes him ache in places deep down, places he can't name or grasp with his fingertips.

"Blaine?"

His name crackles in the other's throat, streaked with sleep. His tongue darts out of his mouth to lick his dry lips. He's confused, Blaine can see it—and he probably mirrors that confusion because he has _no idea what he's doing here._

The door opens just a little bit more and expanses of skin are exposed—he's shirtless, of course, the echo of a memory of late night phone calls and texts exchanged nearly knocks him over, the memory palpable and right _there_ in front of him. The toned muscles of his chest makes his fingers itch at his sides, boxer briefs hugging contours of his body. Something sharp stabs the sternum of Blaine's chest as he looks up at him, makes his eyes stare at anything that's not impressionable pores. His hair is shorter than the last time he saw him, it's not obnoxiously long anymore, it's like—

_Are you a freshman? _

_Do I _look_ like a freshman? _

Right back to the start.

He digs his teeth into his lower lip, bites hard, hard enough to make himself bleed. It's sticking up everywhere, typical bed head, and that singular fact just makes that ache inside him hurt even _more_, like a black hole threatening to swallow him.

"Not that I don't like standing here watching you gawk at me but, Blaine, it's two in the fucking morning."

The irritation that seeps from his voice doesn't go unnoticed and it makes Blaine bristle, the back of his eyes stinging, his vision blurring. Sebastian shifts in front of him, he can't tell if he frowns, he can't fucking see after a long moment, the tears are coursing down his cheeks, his breathing is heavy and labored and his world just starts crashing all around him, suffocating him like a hug, squeezing his body.

He barely feels the taller reach for him, curl his fingers under his elbow, pull him into his room. The room is dark for a brief moment, pitch black; the only noises are of him choking on sobs. He feels like he's out of his own body, watching this from a corner of the room, listening to himself make sounds that ricochet like pathetic whimpers and whines. Sebastian makes a noise that's supposed to be comforting, forces him down onto the bed as he scrambles in the dark, turns a bedside light on, gathers clothes onto his long and lanky body.

Blaine's crying too hard to tell him that he'd rather he wouldn't. And that feels wrong, probably is wrong. This all feels _wrong_.

And it makes him realize, well, when was the last time he really felt right anyways.

Sebastian is kneeling in front of him, eyes concerned and he can tell that he's so out of his element but his demeanor is surprisingly patient, caring, something that doesn't sound like it should be Sebastian Smythe but inevitably is.

"I'm sorry." He manages to choke out, surprising the taller between his knees (and he's imagined that before too, what it would feel like to have the weight of his body between them, wrapping around his slender waist, squeezing, sliding, slotting into place).

"Don't be sorry," Sebastian says, his hands tentatively resting on his thighs, hesitant, like he's not sure if that's alright with him.

It's more than alright.

"Just tell me what's wrong."

How is he supposed to tell this boy anything? How is he supposed to tell him why he drove an hour or so to get here, through the cold and traffic, when he doesn't even know why himself?

He has no right to be here, in this single dorm room, with Sebastian between his knees. He owes him nothing. No explanation. He doesn't care how 'nice' the other claims to be, it shouldn't matter. He nearly blinded him while trying to ruin his boyfriend's (ex-boyfriend's) clothes. He shouldn't be here.

And yet he is.

Because there's a part of him that knows, that recognizes, that there is a part of _Sebastian_ that has always gotten him. A part of the taller that has always gotten under his skin, from the very moment he laid eyes on him, from the moment they went to the Lima Bean, from the moment Sebastian asked him for a second chance, from the moment he descended that spiral staircase and tried to ignore how he was watching him, how he tried to tell him how he was turning over a new leaf.

So maybe those moments are why he's ended up here.

He hasn't seen him in a month or so and the reaction is still the same as all those moments. He doesn't know why he expects it to be any different.

There's an unspoken push and pull between them, invisible to the naked eye but easily detected in the static electricity that surrounds them. Something clear and ever so obvious. Something he's tried to ignore countless times. Something he's tried to hide from.

Something that's drawn him back here because he knows Sebastian will _understand_.

Sebastian doesn't press, he waits, and eventually the tear tracks are dry and sticky on Blaine's face, shallow breaths escaping his mouth.

"I cheated, you know."

The syllables are hollow sounding and Sebastian sighs, nails scraping the fabric of his jeans, tingling his skin.

"Are you looking for someone to reprimand you because seriously, you've come to the wrong place." Is all he says.

He doesn't know what he's looking for, to be honest. He's right, however, because Sebastian isn't exactly the king of honest relationships and cheating to him is like breathing oxygen.

Blaine wants something non-judgmental, he figures, because even though Sam supports him and Rachel listens he can hear it in their voices and see it in their eyes. They can't believe he's done something like that—Blaine Anderson, lovely smiles on the outside but something ugly and mistaken on the inside. Cheater branded into his forehead, ruining his complexion, who he wants to be and who he can be.

He doesn't say anything and Sebastian moves, sits next to him, leans back into the wall a little that is pressed into the side of his bed. He waits for him to speak but silence fills the space, fills the both of them, wind whipping around outside, shadowed footsteps from rooms beside, above and below them.

Waits to hear something like, "You know, I've made mistakes, but trying to take you from Kurt wasn't one of them." But Sebastian doesn't say that.

And Blaine's confused whether he's more relieved or disappointed at that fact.

"Who was it with?"

That's not a question he wants to answer but does anyways. "Someone who didn't matter."

Sebastian hums, a non-committed noise and there's that sense of understanding _again_. It fills Blaine's bones, makes him feel whole, solid.

"It happens."

"It shouldn't have."

Sebastian shifts, turns to face him, one leg tucks up underneath him while the other hangs over the side of the bed. He sighs like he's tired or bored; Blaine's not sure.

"Why did you do it?" That's not what he wants to ask, he can tell, a resounding 'why are you here' hanging in the air between them.

Blaine opens his mouth and closes it, sniffles, pulls on the sleeves of his long sleeved t-shirt, hides his hands. "I don't…" He does know, doesn't want to admit it to Sebastian or maybe himself. Feels exposed, stripped, naked. "I was lonely."

"But you're not anymore." There's a question there too but Sebastian already knows the answer. He just _knows_.

A laugh curls from his lips, hanging on them, a choked noise. He gets the point then, what Sebastian is trying to say; no, making one mistake, one meaningless fuck didn't mean anything, didn't make him feel less lonely.

It's just made everything worse.

He swallows, not sure what to say. Not sure there's anything really to say anyways.

"I am." He admits, nodding his head. "I am."

Sebastian tilts his head, his hands resting on his lap, fingers twitching. "You are." He agrees. "You're lonely." He sighs. "But you know what you're not?"

Blaine looks at him, managing to shrug his shoulders. He doesn't know what he's going to say and maybe that's something he hasn't admitted to himself yet, that he likes that he can't seem to figure Sebastian out. That he's always different, always changing right in front of him. One moment he's something he recognizes and something else a second later.

He knocks his shoulder into Blaine's, trying to encourage something, a smile maybe. He can see the hints of it tugging on the edges of his mouth, genuine and warm replacing the memory lines of his casual smirks.

"You're not a bad person." He licks his lips again and Blaine's eyes zero in on the wetness of his lower lip, the swelling of pink. "You made a mistake. You were selfish and I'd say it's about damn time you did something for yourself."

Blaine's eyebrows draw together and he swallows his own words. "But I—" He falters, wants to say something that sounds like, 'But I hurt someone in the process', but knows Sebastian will just shrug his shoulders in a 'so what?' manner.

That writhing pile of self-hatred that's been sitting in his stomach starts to dissipate, disappears into the warm palm of Sebastian's hand as it settles on his thigh, fingers probably inferring for something other than comfort as they walk across the seam of his jeans.

"A good person making one mistake doesn't make them a bad person." He whispers, the words lacing around his body, seeping into his pores, comforting him in a way that they shouldn't.

"One mistake doesn't make you _me_." He continues; eyes flickering to Blaine's, weight to his words, like that's honestly one of the worst things in the world that Sebastian could call him.

"You're not a bad person, either, Seb." It's said without a moment's hesitation.

Sebastian smiles, though he's not sure if it's because of what he says or the nickname he calls him. There's no rebuttal on his lips, no rush to prove him wrong, the resonance of his words filling the space between them. Sebastian will let him thinks what he wants; even though his eyes tells him how wrong he thinks he is.

Blaine's hand finds his somewhere between their heartbeats and the clicking of the clock on the wall above the dorm room door, fingers interlacing, Sebastian's thumb tracing his pulse point. There's a mutual understanding there, something that squashes the self-doubt for good, burying it where it belongs—and he feels like _himself_ again.

He feels like he's home.


End file.
